


This Dance of Plastic Circumstance

by Taz



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, Edwardian Period, M/M, Oral Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on holiday in Brighton, Holmes and Watson take the opportunity to observe their fellow man, and to work out some old issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Dance of Plastic Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



“They are fortunate,” Sherlock Holmes said. “I agree. _‛The last of life for which the first was made.’”_

Against a background murmur of other diners and the rhythmic clinking of silver upon china, the words marched so precisely in step with my thoughts that I failed, at first, to realise that they had been spoken aloud. I was rather sharp about it when I caught on.

“Holmes!” I said. “Three hundred years ago you would have been burned alive.”

“For making an idle observation?”

“For practicing witchcraft.” I stabbed another bite of my chop. “I can understand picking up a person’s mood from proximity, but you quoted the very line of the poem I was thinking of. It’s uncanny!” Holmes shook his head in private amusement. He was likely remembering similar conversations we had had in the past but, unfortunately, I had just come from the Fresh Air Hospital where I had been visiting an old acquaintance from my army days; seeing how the number of his days was written, and how few they were, had left me out of temper. “It’s unnatural!” I snapped.

“Nonsense!” Holmes retorted. In the course of these discussions he often averred that Detection is, or ought to be, considered an exact science. He was vain when it came to his methodology; my comment pricked the bubble of his conceit. “It was a rational conclusion based on accurate observation. If I laid it out for you step by step, you would tell me it was obvious.”

“Go ahead,” I said, “enlighten me, by all means.”

“Very well. This afternoon, when we passed the bookstall in Victoria Station, you paused to admire that splendid new volume of Browning’s verse that was on display.”

“Yes, Mary loved his early poems.”

“There were certain volumes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning there, as well, but put that aside and recall how, moments ago, your attention was captured by the elderly couple seated on the other side of the room. Your old friend’s sad case had been preying on your mind, but as you observed that couple your expression softened. You were reflecting how blessed they are to be spending their golden years together in health and comfort. When your gaze then drifted into the unseen distance, it was hardly surprising that a certain poem had presented itself to your mind.”

“When you put it that way…” I should have submitted to his logic except his words had filled me with a sense of emptiness and loss—as fresh and painful, as it was sudden and overwhelming. My eyes stung with unshed tears; I had to set my knife and fork down and seize hold of the table’s edge. Holmes recognised my distress.

“Oh, my thoughtless tongue.” He covered my hand with his and kept it there until I had caught my breath. “Better?”

“Yes. Thank you,” I said.

“I don’t understand why you don’t kick me under the table when I start rattling on,” he said.

“I will,” I promised. “One of these days, I will.”

“I give you my word.” He patted my hand and then pulled back abruptly. “I will stop doing whatever it is that I am doing. Instantly.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” I spoke lightly, though, to tell the truth, I was moved. It was an unprecedented concession from a man who, whether from pride or principle, disdained displays of emotion, or weakness.

For my part, I was recovering from the storm, but had had no inclination to finish the meal. I put my knife and fork down. “You would think…after all these years… Yet, it still takes me unaware, and it’s unsettling to know that my face might as well be the banner on The Times, and any Tom, Dick, or Harry can read it.”

“Hardly _any_ Tom, Dick, or Harry.” Holmes smiled ruefully. “I assure you, Watson, to the general run of mankind your thoughts are as much an enigma as the hieroglyphs of Egypt were before Champollion accomplished his great work. And yes I will have coffee.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were going to ask me if I wanted coffee. I may as well. I expect that it is the only thing you’ll permit me to…ah…indulge in while we’re here.” Holmes’ gaze swept the crowded dining room of Brighton’s Grand Hotel.

“You did it again,” I accused.

“I could hardly help it. You signaled you were finished,” Holmes moved his own fork to the other side of his plate, “and, knowing how you love a cup of coffee after dinner, I nipped in and saved you the trouble of asking if I wanted one, too.”

“And that is why they would have heaped the faggots round the stake. When will you learn….?” I was interrupted by two waiters who swooped on us like Valkyries to carry off our plates, while a third proffered a silver coffee pot. The Grand is jealous of its reputation for impeccable service, even during the off-season.

“Finish your thought,” Holmes said, when our cups were full and we were alone again. “When will I learn…?”

“That your Englishman will bear anything except thinking that he’s an open book. I read that somewhere; it must be true.” Holmes gave a bark of laughter. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that half of the food on your plate went back untouched.”

“I couldn’t have swallowed another bite,” he said.

I started to remonstrate with him. “As your friend, if not your doctor…” He dropped his head, and looked at me like a contrite school boy. Then I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Oh!” I said. “Are you dropping a hint?”

“Watson, I respect that you have considerable analytical skills of your own, in your own bailiwick, as a doctor. You instinctively observe details of health and disease. But, in this case, I assure you…”

He was correct. I could see the whites of his grey eyes were clear and that the pupils no longer harboured the fixed rigidity that had caused me so much concern in years gone by. But being concerned for his health was a habit with me—and the reason I had pushed him to come along on this holiday—that, and Mrs. Hudson had been complaining that he wasn’t eating.

“All right,” I said, “Inspector Lestrade would say that was a fair cop. From here on, I will put my trust in the effects of the sea air to settle my nerves, and to improve your appetite.”

“If I don’t die of boredom first,” Holmes said. “Who comes to Brighton in the autumn?”

“Respectable middle-age widowers and their bachelor friends on repairing holidays,” I said, with asperity

“Never say respectable,” Holmes demurred.

“Sober elderly couples then,” I reminded him.

“How shall I survive the excitement?”

 “Holmes,” I said, “You agreed to the expedition. And who was it said that more crime is hidden behind the respectable curtains of a Belgravia drawing room than all the stews of Whitechapel? If that is true then a popular watering hole, such as Brighton, should be good for a murder, or two.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Holmes’ eyes positively gleamed.

“Is that a challenge?” he said.

“Take it for what you will,” I said, repressively. “I’m not going to let you provoke me further.”

“Then I shall find us a case to work on.” He planted his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand and began to scan the other occupants of the dining room. I sipped my coffee, while he peered through the fronds of the palms that provided the illusionary privacy between the banquettes and pillars. In spite of myself, I was curious to see if something would catch his attention. It did not take long.

“I cannot guarantee you a murderer, Watson, but if the proper study of mankind is man, we have found the mother lode. What do you see over there?”

I followed his glance to a man and a woman who were sitting together. To me they looked well-upholstered, self-satisfied and comfortable. Flicking the better angel off of my shoulder, I entered into the game. “A happy married couple,” I said.

“What about him?” His eyes brushed a table in the corner.

“An old soldier in mufti—a bit jaundiced, but still boasting upright carriage, and a splendid set of side-whiskers—I call retired Indian officer on half-pay.”

“Good! And the two sporting types?”

“Gentlemen cricketers?” I said. One of them had his back to me, but I was struck by the dark good looks of the other. “Taking your word as to the sport; I would have called them a pair of tony young swells.”

“That is excellent, Watson, but where you see decent, up-right citizens, I see a pair of adulterers, a wife beater, and two Uranians evading the censorious world’s eyes… _Hullo!_ ” One of the men that he had just stigmatized had sensed our scrutiny and was openly returning the inspection, to the extent of miming Holmes’ pose. Abashed, I planted my gaze firmly on my coffee cup. Holmes merely chuckled. “Extraordinary vigilance. I would say something, in addition to the obvious, is going on. But never mind.” Holmes leaned toward me. “Do you see the mousy little man behind you who is dining with his son?”

“No,” I said.

“They are right behind you.”

“But I’m not going to turn around. Whatever infamous thing they are up to will keep until…” I meant to say it would keep until tomorrow, but I was overtaken by a cavernous yawn, that I just managed to cover. Holmes snorted.

“The beneficial effects of sea air are already making themselves felt. But you should take a look; they’re an interesting pair!”

“No.” I felt another yawn pending. “I’m too tired to goggle at mousy little men, or their sons, or any other scandalous person in this room tonight. Finish your coffee; we’ll have our brandy in the lounge.”

We didn’t remain in the lounge for long. We had lucked into a sea-front suite overlooking the Palace Pier and it was high enough that noise was not a factor and that first night the weather was so clement I left the door from my bedroom to the balcony ajar. I fell asleep to the rhythmic crash of the breakers on the shingle. I have no idea how long I slept, but I woke with a sickening start of apprehension. There was no cause for it, unless it was reaching out in my sleep and finding no one beside me where there had been someone for so long. You would think the passage of time would bring acceptance, but had been happening more and more lately and, when it happened, I found it impossible to get back to sleep.

That night, the moon was full and very bright. I picked up my watch up from the nightstand, read that it was going on two and fell back on the pillow. It was as I was trying to decide if it was worth getting up to prepare a bromide, when the familiar smell of Holmes’ tobacco drifted in through the doorway. I was not surprised he was awake—he had kept irregular hours since our early days in Baker Street. I thought I might get up and join him, but the smoke twined round me like comforting arms, and I fell asleep.

In the morning the memory was hazy and dreamlike. I walked out on to the balcony, wondering if it had been real, and found Holmes’ old briar root- pipe and his tobacco pouch on the arm of a basket chair. I scooped them up carry downstairs with me and then, as we had come in late and gone directly to the hospital, I took the opportunity to take the bird’s eye view of Brighton’s beach. The Palace Pier, as I’ve indicated, was directly below; I could make out stall holders raising their shutters. To the west, the distinctive pylons of the Chain Pier could be seen in the mist and at the other end, the East Pier. On the shingle between the piers, men with donkeys were pushing bathing machines away from the seawall. Any bathers today would have to be hardy souls; the water looked dull and dark, and the reddish glow that was spreading across the horizon promised dirty weather before the day was done.

Holmes had gone out early to acquire a broader selection of newspapers than the Grand provided its guests. I restored his property to him, when we met in the lobby. “Please tell me that you did not sit out there all night,” said I.

“Not intentionally,” he said. “I meant to smoke one pipe, but I had the singular experience, just after eleven, of seeing our two sporting gentlemen leave the hotel. I thought it was a curious time for a walk.”

“Very curious,” I observed dryly.

It hardly needed saying, Brighton has a reputation for keeping its doors open late—notoriously to those with Uranian inclinations—but just then we were distracted by the spectacle of a small sandy-haired man disputing with the manager.

“What do you mean no ferry until tomorrow?!” He was pointing at a page in his guide book to support his argument. “Right here it says ‘Twice daily departures: ten a.m. and two p.m. Passengers board at the end of the Chain Pier.’”

“Your book is out of date, sir!” the manager said. “For the last three years the ferry has only run on the weekends!”

“This is outrageous!” the little man cried, flinging his book down on the counter. “I intended to be in France today! What am I to do?”

The manager was unsympathetic. “Trains to Newhaven and Eastbourne leave on the hour,” he said. “You may take a cross-channel ferry from either port.”

“What am I to do?” The little man repeated; there was no mistaking the edge of desperation in his voice.

“That is up to you, sir,” the manager said. “Either keep the room for tonight, and catch the ferry in the morning, or take the train to Newhaven.”

“The mouse is roaring this morning,” Holmes said.

“Hardly surprising,” I said. “Look at his eyes—the wet protuberance and degree of excitability are very likely to be symptoms of Graves’s disease. If I had the opportunity, I’d recommend he consult a doctor.”

“Breakfast?” Holmes said.

“Yes.” I took a copy of _The Times_ from the rack, and followed him into the dining room.

We lingered over the meal to catch up on the London news. For Holmes, that meant _The Police Gazette_ ; for me the international pages. The American election was imminent and, although, I could not like McKinley’s choice of Vice President, I felt that if Bryan got in, his monetary policy would be a disaster for England. My eye, however, was attracted to the dateline _Manila_. Spain had discovered the unintended consequences of teaching the natives exactly where they stood in relation to Madrid—the islands had exploded in armed, bloody revolt.

“What did they expect?” I said. “Deny people a voice; foist corrupt priests, onerous taxes, and bad government on them…”

Holmes reply was a soft grunt that caused me to snap a crease in my paper and look over the fold to what had engaged his attention. He was hidden from view by the wide pages of _The Gazette_. The banner, in fifty point bold, read, “Camberwell Horror! Human Remains Discovered!”

“Good God!” I said. “What are you—?”

“Listen to this!” Holmes held up his hand. “Quantities of hair, skin and viscera were discovered Wednesday buried beneath the bricks in the basement of a house in Camberwell Crescent. No skeletal remains were found but police have, nonetheless, identified the material as human. Until recently, the house was leased to a Dr. George Ripken, who resided there with his wife Eudora Belle Ripken, who is known in music halls under the sobriquet of Belle Atkins. Police would like to hear from anyone with information as to their whereabouts. Both are being sought, although, it was an associate of Mrs. Ripken’s, who informed police that she had not seen her friend for several weeks, which led to the gruesome discovery. Information as to the whereabouts of Dr. Ripken’s secretary, Miss Lillian Spillsbury, is also being solicited.”

When he had finished reading, Holmes folded the paper and dropped it on his plate. “What do you think?” he said.

“I’d rather not cut my holiday short. Those remains—if they are poor Mrs. Ripken’s—she has been dead for some time.”

Holmes gave a harsh bark of laughter. “We’re not likely to be called in. Even Lestrade should be able to locate the good doctor. I was thinking we could take a walk and see something of the town before the weather closes in.”

“I would like that very much,” I said. “And my guidebook is up to date.”

There has been settlement at Brighton since before Roman times, it is mentioned in the Domesday Book as a farmstead, and in the Middle Ages it was a fishing village called Brighthelmstone. The old heart of the town is a maze of crooked alleyways, that Sussexmen call twittens, and nothing else could have given such a sense of the antiquity of the place as a prowl through those narrow lanes. The old paths, too narrow for carriages, make it—in Holmes’ opinion—an ideal thieves den. The number of low public houses is appalling, but tea shops, tobacconists and booksellers inhabit the lanes, doing business since the time of Charles I. Holmes and I took our time, remarking on any interesting bit of flint work that we saw, and once a faded sign— _Invalide Supplies_ —that must have been painted when sea-bathing replaced fishing and smuggling as the town’s chief occupation.

We came out on North Street tangential to the broad lawns of the Royal Pavilion. It was an impossible thing to see with its domes and minarets floating in the hazy air like a mirage in the desert. The town of Brighton uses the building as public assembly rooms, and it is possible to view what remains of the original décor, but neither of us was inclined to take a tour. When I thought of the man who squandered the nation’s treasure to build it, oblivious to the squalor and poverty nearby…it is regrettable, though hardly surprising, that Brighton has a reputation as a hotbed of anarchy and radicalism. I don’t blame Her Majesty for abandoning it.

“Oysters on the pier?” Holmes said. “If your leg can stand to go on a bit further.”

“Of course it can,” said I.

We wandered down the Old Steine, turning westward toward the Marine Parade, and passed a park with a cricket oval at one end. A crowd had gathered to watch a match. I have a turn for first-class cricket—indeed even for the veriest village match between tyros—although the imbalance between professional and amateur clubs can make exhibitions a somewhat one-sided affair—but I could tell by the hum of appreciation that something unusual was happening.

“Do you mind?” I said.

“Not at all,” said Holmes.

We joined the cluster of spectators arrayed outside the rope—there was no proper pavilion for what was in effect a scratch game in a public park—just as the bowler ran up and delivered a bouncer. The batsman, playing off the front foot to meet it, hooked it, bouncer though it was, over the leg side boundary for six. He disposed of two more balls—a Yorker and a leg-cutter (for these were the years before Bosanquet invented the googly or Puff, the chinaman)—in a similar fashion before the fielding side’s captain had a chat with his bowler.

“Don’t make no odds sure-le.” I heard one of the locals nearby chortle. “Reckon the bowler can put ’em where as he likes and that youngster, he’ll put ’em where as he wants ’em to go.”

Holmes took out his pipe and began to fill the bowl. “You do recognise the striker?” he said.

“It’s the swell who caught you out at dinner,” I said.

The fielding captain returned to his post at short leg, resetting his fielders with a sharp set of hand signals. Play resumed.

“ _En garde_ , Watson,” Holmes said, as he struck a match. “You have an admirer homing on your port beam.”

“B-beg your p-pardon…” Yes, there was a very pink and blond young man at my shoulder. “I c-couldn’t help… but, you’re John Watson, aren’t you?” I nodded affirmative and the flood gates opened. “I heard you speak at a Friday literary tea! The _Hound of the Baskervilles_ is my favourite of yours; you see I write a bit—my name is Manders—and I wish I could write like you…”

“Thank you, very much,” I said. It happens. There was nothing to do but extend one’s hand and try to ease the mutual torment; the poor thing had turned beet-red in an agony of shyness. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates my modest efforts.” I shot an evil look at Holmes’ back (he had stepped away, ostensibly to shield his match). Turn about being fair play, I said, “Allow me to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the man but for whose genius I would have nothing to write about.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Manders cried. “Are you on a case? That would be terribly exciting.”

“Merely on holiday,” I said.

I missed the delivery (it was a high lob Holmes told me later), but heard the crack of the bat.

“Bunny!” someone shouted.

“Wot cher!” Manders said.

Holmes turned his head. The ball had to have ruffled his hair as it whizzed over his shoulder and straight into Manders’ hand. Manders stood, staring at it, as if he couldn’t believe it had happened, or possibly that he had caught it, while the team captains, the fieldsmen and two referees came running.

Holmes waved them off laughing, took the ball out of Manders’ hand and hurled it back to the bowler.

The game went on, but the incident had broken the batsman’s concentration; he was run out on the next pitch and came trotting over.

“Oh, bad luck, old fellow!” Manders said.

“Never mind me. Everyone’s head still attached to his neck?”

Manders may have been prepared to commiserate, but I have seen men hit by a cricket ball who have been knocked unconscious, and worse. Shaken and ready to explode, I cried, “Bad luck! What on earth were you thinking?”

“I was thinking another six!” The man was as cheeky and as blithe as if he had just played a huge joke. “Come, now, no one was nicked!”

I was speechless. It was Manders who said, “A.J.! You’ll never guess whose stumps you nearly drew!”

“Tell me, Bunny—as long as it isn’t Fred Parris.”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

The self-assured grin vanished abruptly. White spots appeared on either side of the batsman’s nose, and there was honest contrition on his face when he said, “My deepest apologies. Mr. Holmes. My name is Raffles. Believe me; I was sure I could put the ugly thing over the line. I don’t know how I came to cock it off that way.”

“You didn’t, by any chance, mistake me for Special Branch, did you?” Holmes said.

“Heavens no!” Raffles’ blue eyes opened wide. “Why on earth would you say a thing like that?”

“Because there are criminals in England who would be very glad to hear that I no longer breathed above the earth,” Holmes said, smiling.

“I am not one of them,” Raffles said, returning the smile and offering his hand. “I assure you.” The two of them shook hands and Raffles turned to me. “That means you must be Dr. Watson,” he said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that dueling has gone out of fashion! I can tell you would love to call me out but then I’d be in the soup with Bunny, here. He’s addicted to your work, you see, and I wouldn’t have him upset for the world.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”

“Friends,” I said. If Holmes could shake his hand I could do no less.

“What was that about?” I asked, as Holmes and I continued on our way.

“What was what about?” he said, innocently.

“A.J. Raffles is one of England’s best all-round amateur cricketers.”

“He must be. To have been bowled a lobster and to have driven it as he did, where he did…. I’m not fond of team sports, but I must start following the game.”

“He was trying to hit you on purpose!”

“More in the nature of a shot across the bows. A case of mistaken identity. A joke.”

“Holmes!” I said, dangerously.

“Only a highly suspicious person would wonder what those two were getting up to between eleven last night and five-thirty this morning.” Holmes sighed. “Did you observe his _beaux yeux_? I feel certain a man of his caliber would never stoop to anything sordid or debased.”

“To hell with his _beaux yeux_!” said I.

We were crossing the Esplanade. A woman gave a pointed sniff as she passed and averted her face. Her escort her glared at me.

“Watson,” Holmes said, “you’re putting me to the blush.”

“To hell with you, too,” I muttered, as we climbed onto the pier.

It was the woman whom Holmes had claimed to be an adulteress; it was not the same man.

It’s a queer thing, the sea-side: people who wouldn’t dream of letting an indelicate word cross their lips will promenade about eating fish and chips out of paper bags, mess about in tidal pools and spend tuppence for candy-floss and Italian hokey-pokey; these things are as pleasant to fifty, as they are to ten. I like it best at this time of year, when there are fewer families about.

We passed an arcade. From inside I heard a high piping voice call, “Papa! Papa! Give me a penny!” It was a boy of about thirteen in a tweed suit that must have been his first long trousers. He held my attention longer than he would otherwise have, his straw boater was far too big for him; he kept pushing back on his head. And the man who came to put his arm around his shoulders was the same sandy-haired little man with the protuberant eyes whom we had seen quarrelling with the hotel manager. Apparently he had decided to stay on.

He fished a penny from his pocket and gave it to the boy, who seized it and ran to drop it in the slot of one of the peep-show machines. The flicker was entitled, “What the Butler Saw.” It couldn’t have been that shocking, but when the boy leaned over the eyepiece he pulled back, blushing. The father leaned over to take a look.

“I predict the Brighton Commissioners will soon receive a strongly worded letter,” Holmes commented.

Our goal was Ormond’s, a stall at the end of the pier, where they served the oysters freshly hauled up in baskets from the boats bobbing in the water below. We stood at the counter, drank lager, and swallowed a couple of dozen.

There was an ‘oompah’ band puffing away down on the beach, but it was the lively music from the carousel’s organ that set the tempo of people hurrying to cram as much pleasure into the day as possible.

I watched Holmes squeeze lemon over the last oyster. He set the shell to his lips, drank the broth and let the creature slide into his mouth. His eyes were half-closed, a sleepy cat’s, savouring before he swallowed.

“Shall we split another dozen?” I said,

“I think not.” Holmes reverently set the shell on his plate.  “I would not want to offend this one.”

“Then don’t you think it’s time you told me why you agreed to come on this holiday?” I finished the last of my lager. Holmes made no answer. It was growing cooler. “Did you hear me?” I said.

“I did. Think of oyster. Eat as many as you will, no two taste the same.”

“You’re being deliberately obscure,” I said.

“Break the experience into its parts,” Holmes said. “There is the first fresh shock of brine, heightened by the contrast with the lemon; then the elusive sense of the creature as it slides into your mouth. It resists your teeth with surprising firmness, until—suddenly—there is a burst of softness and your mouth is filled with flavour. Chew, and at the end, as you swallow, there is a fleeting green whisper of sweetness.” He looked eastward, where the outlines of the Chain Pier were growing steadily more ghostly and indistinct. “I want you to move back to Baker Street.”

It was the last thing I expected him to say. As I stared, the boy from the arcade ran up to the railing beside us where the binocular viewers were mounted. “We can see France from here!” he screamed.

Flushed and overexcited, he skipped back to his father and began pulling him by the arm. “Another penny, Papa! Give me another penny!” ‘Tears before bedtime,’ my mother would have said. What she meant was I would settle down, or feel the back of my father’s hand when he came home. “Another penny, old man!” The piping voice grated on my nerves.

“Let’s walk,” I said. The father was too weak in character to discipline the boy.

“The hotel…?” said Holmes.

“No.”

“Your leg…?”

“Is fine!”

We left the pier, walked along the lower esplanade and caught the tram that runs along the sea front. The salmon sky of the morning had dissolved into a hazy blue that was now turning white. It was growing colder still. The open carriage made for a nippy ride, but I wasn’t about go back to the hotel and allow Holmes an opportunity to bury himself in the lounge. There would be no prying him out, and if it came to words between the two of us, as I suspected it would…. Let me say that, if it came to words, I wanted to be able to raise my voice and bloody well yell!

We got off at the end of the line by the Chain Pier and walked along the shore in mutual silence for about a quarter of a mile. We skirted tidal pools as the waves made running snatches at our shoes. A bank of sea fog was rolling in thick across the water. The beach there is littered with boulders. I didn’t realize that Holmes wasn’t beside me until I heard him call, “Far enough!” I turned and he was 20 feet behind me, parked on a boulder. He had tucked his hands into his arms. The wind was ruffling his hair. In the gathering mist he looked like some sort of ethereal roc. “My shoes are wet,” he said. “How long are you going to drag this out?”

I walked back and had just about reached his perch, intending to drag him off of it, when a ship’s horn sounded so close that I nearly jumped out of my skin. An apparition appeared through the fog. It was like a cross between a tram and tugboat gliding along the shore about sixty yards out in the water and _twenty feet above the waves._

I stumbled backwards. “What the…!” Holmes’ iron grip forestalled a painful landing. His arm slipped around my waist as eased me beside him. “There are passengers!” I could see fluttering white handkerchiefs being waved at us. “It is carrying passengers!”

“Of course it is. It’s the sea train from Rottingdean.”

We watched as the thing vanished in the fog with another toot of its horn.

“You would never get me on that,” I said, attempting to rise. Holmes’ arm prevented me.

“I want you to come home,” he said. “I have been thinking about it for some time.”

“We settled this years ago,” I said. “There is nothing to talk about.”

“I never blamed you for leaving me.”

“I know.”

“She was perfect for you; I knew…”

“You needn’t say her name.”

“It was inevitable.”

“Yes, it was,” I said, attempting again to rise. I wasn’t having this. Years ago I had faced the soul-killing knowledge that, as a lover, he could never face me without drugs.

I believe I would have told him so again, there and then, in no uncertain terms, had he not buried his face in my neck. I can’t say what I felt at that moment, with the weight of his head on my shoulder and the heat of his breath on my neck. I must have been stronger in the old days. I kissed him, instead—brutally—and shoved him away.

“Nothing has changed,” I said, and wrenched myself free, meaning to start back to the train.

“No!” He caught hold of my hand and looked at it as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then he seemed to reach a conclusion and, deliberately, twined our fingers together. “You have to give me a chance.”

“Why? For what purpose?”

“For what used to be between us.”

I stared. “You’ve been thinking about this for some time? After all these years… Why mention it now?”

“I don’t know! The time never seemed right; the case I was working on required all my attention. Something...always something. It doesn’t matter! The truth is I couldn’t have stood it, if… But you asked me to come with you to Brighton and I thought— _there_ —if you refused me, or said that you didn’t care, we could pretend it never happened, and still be friends.” He squeezed my hand. “I didn’t mean to make such a mull of it, but…aren’t you even the least bit curious.” The corner of his gave a quirk. “I am. After all these years.”

“Holmes,” I said, with bitter amusement, “There is no alkaloid you haven’t tasted out of idle curiosity. Do you mind if I prefer not being experimented on.”

“Give it a chance, John,” he said, making it an order (Even in humility he had to be master).

When I did not react, colour appeared on his cheeks and his eyes (with which he was compelling me to understand his meaning without him have to speak the words) grew stormier. “Give _me_ a chance,” he said. “I want to know what it would be like to touch you…without… Please. Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh.” I had never thought to hear him beg. _Touch and be touched…_

The fog welled round us—thick and heavy and cold—in that nacreous world smelling of seaweed there was no touchstone. I had no idea what to do. A flame I thought I had tamped down forever flared to life. I was weakening, but I was damned if I would let him see how much. Suppose that I…

“Suppose that I’m fool enough to say yes; how do you imagine us proceeding? I ask purely as a point of interest. Neither of us is a hot young spark.”

“Of course; purely as a point of interest. I imagine we could proceed as the first man who ate an oyster must have—in a spirit of adventure and scientific inquiry…” His words were as light as mine, but the pressure of his hand could have cracked bone. “Starting by getting outside of a hot whiskey and lemon.”

“That sounds…” I said, “An excellent plan.”

I was lost.

I remember the ride back to the Palace Pier, and the walk to the hotel, as if I were standing at a distance, watching someone else perform the necessary actions. Even in the sitting room of our suite, having changed damp tweeds for flannel bags and rolled shirtsleeves, I found myself in an armchair, wondering what I was doing there.

Outside the world was silver-grey. Holmes was at the board mixing whiskey. The only light in the room was the fire in the grate, casting faint figures on the wall behind him. Their shadowy dancing reminded me of the old days, when we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other—him thrusting between my thighs—his eyes with their great black pupils ringed by a narrow band of steely grey—and a chill slunk along my nerves, that made me feel heavy and lethargic.

It was the sharp fumes from the glass Holmes held under my nose that snapped me out of my funk.

“ _Alea jacta est,_ ” he said.

I returned the salute. “Here’s how!”

Our glasses pinged. We sipped. I had committed myself.

He was only inches from me. It might have been miles. As the whiskey spread through me, it thawed some cynical part of my brain that wondered, now that we had come to it, if he would wait until I made the first move. In the randy old days, when he wanted me, he had always loomed close so that I felt the radiant warmth of his body, but it was always me who made the first move to bridge the space between us. If that was the case, I determined that he could wait until Hell froze over, but I had forgotten with whom I was dealing. For Sherlock Holmes a resolution once made could only be followed by action.

He set his glass down with a thump and folded at my feet like a marionette whose stings had been cut. When he reached up to touch my face in supplication, even if was still playing-acting the beggar, the gesture shattered what was left of my resistance and, convulsively, I pressed his hand against my cheek, and placed a kiss in the inner hollow of his wrist.

I heard him catch his breath, looked in his face; he was staring at the spot. He took my hand and copied the gesture. His nostrils flared as his lips touched the skin over the pulse. Slowly, experimentally, he tasted me with tongue and teeth and traced my arm to the pulse in the bend of my elbow and did the same thing there. He wasn’t the only one having trouble breathing as he leaned close and kissed the hollow at the base of my throat, and the hollow beneath my jaw. Each caress was as if he were trying it out for the first time. A feeling like an electric current swarmed over me, as it came to me this was the first time he had ever explored another being in intimacy, without the intervening agency of a drug transforming the experience.

I willed myself to be passive, and let him shuck me, button by button, open my shirt, expose skin that he could sample what flavours were found at the crease of an arm or the swell of muscle. The whole time he was labouring for air. It was arousing beyond anything I had ever experienced and I stood it until a puff of breath fanned the heated nub of a nipple. I reacted without thinking, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and forcing his head to my breast. His mouth clamped onto the nipple, sucking hard, and we rocked together.

How long…?

I have no idea. That moment of sublime realisation and carnal pleasure stretched for eternity, until I heard him groaning in frustration. I had never experienced such communion before and Holmes, drawing and gnawing on me, was no longer the cerebral pioneer, investigating sensation. He needed me! He needed me as a child needs its mother! He was sucking harder, painfully hard. It was excruciating, the sound and the sensation thrilling me to an intolerable pitch. I was on the verge, my prick throbbed with urgency, but I knew what he needed. Frantically, I undid the buttons of my trousers, sat forward and pulled Holmes between my thighs. At last, I fed him the remedy he needed.

It was administered quickly—the strong man on the floor my feet, my prick in his mouth, the priceless confusion on his face—thrust and thrust—it started from the root of my being and surged out of me in soft throbbing pulses. I slumped against the seatback, Holmes following, lapping as if it were water in the desert. I could feel his body racked with shudders, though. That steely self-control that fixed the separation of body from mind would not permit him release. That terrifying—the uncontrollable—dissolution of boundaries must have been especially dreadful for Holmes…to be vulnerable.

But he had entrusted himself to me to do with what I would. I pulled him up on my lap, freed him, and brought him to it with several hard strokes of my hand, cradling and comforting him, sharing it with him until he lay limply with his arm around my shoulder, and his head resting against mine.

After a bit, he murmured, “Where do we do from here?”

“One of us fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket. My hand is…” I let him catch a pungent whiff (It’s ludicrous when we embrace the flame and finish melting like candle wax). “Can you reach yours? You’re sitting on mine.”

“Sorry.” He stood up, yawning. I dug my handkerchief out, used it, and tossed it in the general direction of where the telephone stand was lurking in the darkness.

“Go lie down,” I said, pushing Holmes toward the sofa. “We’ll dine in.”

I found the telephone, the switchboard operator put me through to the kitchen and I ordered dinner for 7 o’clock.

“Sit with me,” Holmes said, when I’d put the receiver down. I slipped into the corner of the sofa. He put his head in my lap. “What are we having?”

“A dozen on the half-shell, a couple of rare steaks, fried potatoes, and two bottles of Gruaud-Larose ’70.”

“Lashings of fried potatoes?” he said, sleepily.

“Lashings of them,” I said, stroking his head. “You are going to need your strength.”

The fire had died down and the room was dark, other than the silvery glow at the window from the fairy lights twinkling on the pier below. Maybe youth can sustain itself on poetry and wine, but age wants a nap and a good meal. I have no idea which of us was the first who started snoring.

Sleep restored us to a semblance of men; dinner went a long way to making the semblance reality. The steaks were tender, the potatoes crisp—the Bordeaux astonishing—but both of us, each for our own reasons, was quiet but the afternoon paper, which had come up with the tray, provided a pretext for conversation—the second lead was the swoop on Harringtons. The fashionable jeweler in the Burlington Arcade had been hit in the early hours of the morning; in addition to a substantial quantity of loose stones, the thieves’ haul had included the Robey emeralds.

Lady Robey had intending to wear them at a party on the occasion of her daughter’s engagement. She had sent them to be cleaned on the spur of the moment, only the day before the robbery.

I read the details to Holmes, and finished by adding, “Do you think the break-in was result of an inside tip, or were the thieves lucky beyond their wildest dreams?”

“Lucky,” Holmes said. “Mackenzie can add this to the list of recent high profile robberies that he has failed to solve.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Consider,” Holmes said, “they jimmy the lock on the front door, gain access to the passage leading to the vault by removing a small section of a glass panel; brown paper applied with treacle prevents it from falling and breaking. They take the trouble to accomplish all this in the dark, knowing that they still have the vault to crack. They worked quietly, with precision, in a narrow window of time. Forethought and planning, plus the telling detail. There is a highly unusual mind, behind it, a mind that enjoys risk for its own sake. Mackenzie will round up the usual lot of London professors, and fail…” Holmes’ voice trailed off.

I looked up and he was staring preoccupied at the window. He would not have been called to consult in this kind of case—unless the circumstances required the most extreme discretion—but I could imagine another cause for his abstraction. A suspicion that was reinforced when he said, “Where did you put the Bradshaw?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“I need it!” Holmes said.

“Fine,” I said, throwing the paper down. “But don’t tell me you left the gas on; I know Mrs. Hudson had the electricity in last year.”

“What?” Holmes looked momentarily confused. Then he read my expression. “Oh! No. Watson, I assure you, I’m only curious to see how the night trains run between London and Brighton. You couldn’t think…having come this far…after this long. Do you think I would cut and run? What if the man who ate the first oyster had stopped after? What if the first one had been bad? Or he found the smell disgusting? What if he had never eaten the sec—?”

I kicked him under the table. I kicked him hard. I couldn’t help it.

He stared at me.

“You’re rattling on,” I said.

“And you’re hoisting me on my own petard?”

He stared hard—the imperious Holmes—but I was all too familiar with the tactic. I balled up the napkin in my lap and threw it on the table.

“You gave your word,” I reminded him. “Now come to bed.”

He followed me.

As for the rest of the night…? He had given me the keys; I made use of them. I can’t boast I have the stamina of seventeen; I didn’t need it. It is experience that counts and, as I have indicated in the past, I have the benefit of copious experience.

Our bodies, after time, were new worlds to discover. Him—harder and leaner. Me—softer (I confess it; he didn’t seem to mind). I instructed him in how to pay attention to every part. Their textures—rough, smooth, wet, dry, and greasy. Their smells—yeasty, earthy, and sharp. Their flavours—cucumber, salt, citrus, and copper—bitter, acrid and sweet.

I will boast that he didn’t sleep in his room that night and, further, that he woke me in the morning to practice a particular skill that I had taught him; one he didn’t feel he had _quite_ perfected. There is no sauce as piquant as tasting one’s own note on your lover’s tongue; glorious communion—like kissing the sea on the lips, as the poet says; the perfect _hors d’oeuvre_. We lay in bed a while after but, eventually, we had to attend to the lower man.

I was giving my hair a final polish with the brushes, when Holmes came in from the balcony.

“How can you not be ready yet?!” he accused.

“That’s hardly fair, considering the time that you took in the bath. Seriously, I’m desperate for a kipper, are you sure you can bring yourself to climb down off of your roost?”

“Barely. It’s the perfect observation post. I’ve seen Mouse and son; they’ve gone to catch the ferry.”

“Good. One doesn’t want to criticize, but that boy wants a beating. It is too bad the mother is dead.”

“Friend Raffles, and his Bunny, left as well.” Holmes’ voice sounded a bit distant, but I could see in the mirror that he was looking at me.

There was a slight delay. I had to make some adjustments to my tie, and smooth my hair again. But, eventually, in due course, we found ourselves in the hall in front of the lift. The dial seemed to be stuck on ten. Holmes was bouncing impatiently on his toes. “Watson?” he stopped suddenly and said, apropos of I knew not what, “Why did you say the mother was dead?” The question caught me off guard, and cost me some effort of thought. As the dial started falling, I remembered—

“The back of the boy’s pants! At the arcade, when he bent over to look at that flicker, I saw the seam had parted and been repaired with safety pins. No woman, be she ever so ill, who was still capable of threading a needle would let her child go in public in that state.”

“Damn it!” Holmes exclaimed in the face of the startled operator as the lift doors opened. Then he was running for the stairwell, crying, “Follow me!”

“But the lift!”

“No time!” Holmes flung himself down the stairs.

I had to take the car. Fortunately it made no other stops and I was out the Grand’s front door and scrambling into a cab that Holmes had secured. I was sure he would have left me, but he had waited.

“Driver!” he said, tapping the roof. “Chain Pier! There’s half a crown if we make the ferry!”

The driver touched his horse and we fairly flew over the cobbles. I hadn’t a clue what had set Holmes off, but I checked my watch as we rattled along. “We’ve ten minutes!”

We made it with three minutes to spare. Holmes left me to pay of the fare, as he ran the length of the pier. I could only limp after him, as quickly as I could.

Subsequently, the papers were full of the story of how, thanks to the brilliant insight of Sherlock Holmes, the murderer Dr. Ripken and his mistress Lillian Spillsbury—she disguised as a boy—were taken off the Brighton ferry, arrested and bound over for trial.

For Holmes made the ferry. I saw him run up the gangplank. There was a delay, of course, as he was being brought to the Captain, during which the French crew, not understanding what was going on, cast off lines and signaled all clear to depart. I reached the landing. I shouted at the crewmen that I could see, but the engines were rumbling and ferry’s bow was pulling away. The stern swung closer to the dock. Certain that I could reach the railing, I jumped for it. My leg gave way. I fell short and plunged into the water.

And so it was also reported that, in the excitement, a poor cripple went in the water and had to be rescued by A.J. Raffles, the well-known amateur cricketer. A few of the more sensational rags took the trouble to describe Raffles’ lithe, spare body ‛cutting into the water as cleanly and precisely as though he had gone in at his leisure from a diver’s board!’ _Bastards._

The following spring—it was one those rare daffodil days in late March—Sherlock Holmes sat with his fingertips together, his elbows on the arms of the chair, and his legs stretched in front of him. It was a pose of deep concentration, the object of which was a gold-bordered card that Mrs. Hudson had carried reverently upstairs on a silver salver. The crest was unmistakable.

“‛He tasks me,’ Watson,” Holmes said.

“What are you going to do anything about it?” I said.

“‛He heaps me.’”

“No, he hooked the rubies from the Burmese Consul in November—it was you who declined Mackenzie’s request for a consultation—and now it is the Dalhousie Diamond.”

“You would think Scotland Yard would be capable of apprehending a common burglar,” Holmes said.

“A very uncommon burglar; you said so yourself.” I was feeling peevish. Crouched in an undignified position, on a very small footstool, trying to shift a collection of bound coroner’s reports to make room for some of my own books on the already over-stuffed shelves; it was a thankless task. “You were square when he jumped in the water after me.”

“‛I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it,’” Holmes said.

“Oh, for God’s sake!”  I said, in exasperation. There is only so much Melville a man can take, and Holmes’ inertia in the face of what was nothing more than bald-faced provocation was infuriating. “He is not a whale! He is an unmitigated puppy who, if not stopped, is going to go the length of his cable and do something truly outrageous one of these days!” The evidence—my Bradshaw glossed, underlined, and larded with clippings from the sporting news as well as the police blotter—lay on the breakfast table. “He is pulling your nose, and just because you feel an obliga—”

Both of us turned our faces to a sudden commotion in the street and, as we listened, Holmes shuttered his eyes. “Oh, your prophetic soul, Watson,” he said. “You were right. I will drop a hint in Mackenzie’s ear.”

Below the window, the newsy went on bawling, “Jewel Theft at British Museum! Daring Daylight Raid!”

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments:
> 
> Two people gave me incalculable help: Tryfanstone, who Britpicked, Brighton-picked and was unbelievably patient with my constant reiterations; Wemyss, whose cricket-picking supplied more than "a note of verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative." And - as some of you know, I have double-vision and was paying less attention than usual - thanks are owed to jbs_teeth who pointed out that I uploaded the wrong file; my apologies to those who happened to read that version. 
> 
> As to the work itself: in addition to Arthur Conan Doyle, authors and poets whose work I referenced, paraphrased, inferred, quoted, or stole from outright, include:
> 
> Robert Browning (1812-1889), whose poem 'Rabbi Ben Ezra' provided the title and the theme: "Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made..."
> 
> Léon-Paul Fargue (1876-1947), poet and essayist, who said that eating an oyster was "like kissing the sea on the lips."
> 
> Herman Melville (1819-1891), who (as all righteous fen know) wrote of Moby Dick: "He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. "
> 
> W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911), author of "Iolanthe," "Patience," "The Mikado," not to mention "that infernal nonsense Pinafore" et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...."
> 
> E.W. Hornung (1866-1921), creator of A.J. Raffles, the gentleman thief, as well as his 'close' personal friend and biographer, Harry 'Bunny' Manders. 
> 
> Lastly, in my Dr. George Ripken the astute reader will recognize Dr. Hawley Harvey Crippen (1862-1910).


End file.
